


Hold Still

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Oneshot, Pining, Qyburn and steelshanks are here too, Set after the bear pit, Tending Wounds, but they aren't important, rated teen cos swears, the moment when Brienne Realises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: “I’m fine.”“You’re bleeding.”“It’s just a scratch, it’s nothing to concern yourself with.”After leaving Harrenhal, Brienne insists on tending to Jaime's wounds. Jaime is less keen on the idea. Inspired by a prompt on Tumblr.





	Hold Still

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea came about by a Tumblr prompt shared by Weedsareflowerstoo, so...thank you!

They didn’t stop walking until they were several miles out of Harrenhal. No one in their party had been particularly keen to stop; even with Locke’s word that they could return to King’s Landing, they wanted to put as much distance between them and the castle as possible.

Their small party hadn’t even stopped to go back for Brienne’s armour, and she found herself trudging along in the foul pink dress that the men had forced upon her earlier that day. A blessing in disguise, she supposed, as the plate would have rubbed fiercely against the deep, throbbing gouges that clawed across her neck.

They stopped at the edge of a cluster of trees, a small but fast-moving stream to the West. Brienne was grateful for it: the water was cool and crystal clear. She knelt on its banks, muddying the dress even further, and furiously scrubbed the dirt and blood from her arms and neck. Qyburn - the maester that Jaime intended to bring to King’s Landing with them - insisted on cleaning the wound on her neck with boiling wine anyway. 

“There’s no telling what may lay up stream, My Lady.” He said, as he held down her head and poured the hot, stinging liquid over the cuts. For once, she did not correct him, but sat in silence as he cleaned the gashes and methodically sewed them up with a silver needle and dark, coarse thread. 

All the while, she felt Jaime’s eyes upon her. As she washed the grime from her skin, as she drank from Steelshank’s wineskin, as Qyburn’s deft fingers and even defter needle poked and prodded and tore at her skin. The other men had started a small fire and headed into the little thicket of trees to see what game, if any, they could find, but Jaime sat a little way away, watching the running stream and her by turns. 

She could bear it no longer. She rose from the felled tree she’d been sitting on as Qyburn tended to her, trying to ignore the stiffness in her joints, and made her way to him. As she approached, he averted his eyes once more to the sparkling waters. 

“Ser Jaime.”

He looked up at her, as if only just noticing she was she was there, and nodded before turning away once more. She took it as a greeting, and sat herself down beside him, wincing as the movement jarred the stitches. She struggled to find the right words.

“I...I wanted to thank you...Ser Jaime. I’d have been killed in there, were it not for you.”

“You could have been killed whether I was there or not. It wasn’t me who saved you, it was Steelshank’s crossbow.” 

“You threw yourself into a _bear pit_ , Ser Jaime. Unarmed. One handed. Don’t pick now of all times to start behaving _modestly_.” 

“I’m not being _modest_ , My Lady, I’m being _truthful_. I thought that was what you expected, one of your knightly virtues.”

“You jumped in front of a bear for me, Ser. I do not intend to forget that. You have my thanks: whether you want them or not.”

He shook his head, still gazing at the stream where the water splashed against the rocks, jumping and shimmering like diamonds. Like sapphires. 

“You’re better saving your courtesies for someone else.”

"But I'm giving them to _you_."

He ignored her. No: she wouldn't let him bury this, wouldn't let him deny that he _was_ a good man, beneath the cynicism and the gilded shell.

“ _Look at me!_ ” She reached out, unthinking, and grabbed his wrist. He gasped - a short, sharp hiss - and wrenched it out of her grip. When she pulled her hand back, there was dark blood glistening on her fingers.

“Ser Jaime…” She breathed, looking up at him, “You’re injured; here, let me…”

She reached out to take his arm again but he snatched it out of her grasp, held it to his chest. 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re _bleeding_.” 

“It’s just a scratch, it’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Let me _see_ , for Gods’ sake.”

He stared at her in silence for a moment, the only sound the running water and the wind whistling in the trees. He looked...vulnerable, his arm held to his chest, uselessly protected by his stump, eyes wide and shining.

“Let me see."

He relented, and held it out to her. She pulled herself to her knees and dragged back the sleeve of his tunic as gently as she could. The movement of the fabric peeled away a crust of thick, half-clotted blood and the wound began to freely bleed. It was a long cut, but shallow, and as she edged closer, her fingers pressing into the skin around it, she could see where the claw of the bear had hooked in and caught beneath the flesh. It curved, slightly, around his wrist.

“This needs to be cleaned, or it’ll fester.”

“It’s fine. It’s just a scratch.”

She looked at him incredulously, shaking her head. “You can’t leave it like this, it’s filthy.”

He went to move, but she grabbed his arm at the elbow with just enough pressure to promise that if he struggled, there would be pain.

“I’ll clean it my damn self if I have to." She said.

“And how do you propose to do that, if I refuse to let you?”

She almost found herself smiling at the familiar stubbornness. “I’ll hold you down and push it into the stream. Or I’ll hold you down and pour boiling wine into it. Or I’ll hold you down and rub one of Qyburn’s ointments on it.”

“You couldn’t hold me down. You couldn’t overpower me”

“We both know that’s not true.”

He rolled his eyes. “For the last time, _wench_ , it doesn’t count if I’m bound in ropes. That’s hardly a fair match. And with that,” his eyes darted to the mess of stitches on her neck, “you wouldn’t be able to stop me from running away, much less pin me down.”

“Tell me, _Ser_ , how far could a man run with a festered wound? You’re weakened already; I could knock you down with ease.”

Suddenly, he was on his feet: she followed suit, pulling herself up to her full height so they were nose to nose.

“You can’t fight me, wench.” He growled.

_Gods, what was she doing? She’d let him pull her into another foolish quarrel._

“I don’t want to _fight_ you, Jaime.” She sighed, letting her shoulders drop. “I want to _help_ you.” 

He frowned at her, like he couldn’t understand. She watched his eyes dart back and forth, as if looking for the lie, for the trick. 

“ _Please_.” 

He took a step back, and suddenly she could breathe again. Now the anger had gone, now she was thinking clearly, she realised just how close they had been standing to one another. 

“Fine, then.” He said, “Fine. Clean it. But _you_. Not…” He looked over to the fire, where Qyburn was heating some concoction over the smouldering wood, “Not him. I owe him too much already.”

"Sit, then." She said, "I'll be back."

She headed back to their makeshift camp. She could still feel Jaime’s eyes upon her, and resisted the urge to turn back, to look at him. Qyburn peered at her with curiosity when she asked for something to clean the gash on Jaime' s arm, asking if she would not prefer if he took a look at the wound himself. Brienne gave him some line about _returning a debt_ , which seemed to placate him, and he handed her a bundle of rags, bandages and a clay pot containing another one of his ointments. 

"There's still wine boiling," he said, gesturing to the wineskin hung over the fire on the spot, "I find it pays to be prepared. How is your neck, My Lady?"

There was something about him that she found unsettling; something she couldn't describe. But he had tended to her, and his work was impeccable, if unorthodox.

"Stiff, and still a little sore."

Qyburn nodded. "The pain will pass. The scars, I fear, will not."

She shrugged at him. "I shall wear them the best I can. Thank you, Ser."

Brienne grabbed the wine pouch by the sling and made her way back to where Jaime was struggling with his arm. The blood was dry and clinging to his skin, tangling and tugging at golden hairs. He was trying to wash it off in the water, but without the use of his right hand he was limited to dipping it into the stream and letting the rushing water wash over it, then pulling it out again and rubbing it uselessly against the dirty fabric of his trousers.

“Let me.” She said, as the placed the items beside him.

He looked at her with suspicion, but didn’t stop her when she knelt next to him and rolled up his sleeve. She cupped her hands in the stream and poured the water over his arm, washing away what blood she could, careful not to get too much into the wound itself. He squirmed as the cold water splashed at the open wound, and she pressed her fingers into the soft flesh of his arm, keeping it still.

When it was as clean as she could manage, she reached across and grabbed the still-warm wine skin. Jaime flexed his fingers, staring at the blood still seeping from the cut, as she opened it. At the soft _pop_ of the cork, he looked up at her.

“Must you?”

“It needs to be properly cleaned, or it will turn. You _know_ I have to.” 

He sighed, and held his arm out. She moved around, positioning the arm in front of her, her hand around his elbow.

“Ready?”

He nodded, silently, and she proceeded to pour the hot, red liquid over the wound. He hissed again, the sound sharply escaping from between his teeth, wincing in pain. The wine spilled over his arm, pooled in the claw-wound and dripped down his skin, staining the grass below.

“ _Fuck._ ” He muttered under his breath, his face contorting as the final few drops slid from the skin.

Brienne reached for one of the cleaner strips of cloth that Qyburn had given her, and started to wipe away the excess liquid - blood and wine mixed together. 

“Aren’t you done yet, woman?” He spat at her, his eyebrows still tightly knitted together.

“That depends.” She said, pressing around the gash perhaps a little more forcefully than was necessary, “Do you want to lose this one too?”

He scowled at her instead of responding, and she continued to mop up the mingled wine and blood. When the arm was clean, and the bleeding slowed, she reached for the ointment. She pulled off the lid, revealing the grey paste inside, and was immediately struck with an unpleasant, acrid smell that made her eyes water. Even out here in the open air, the smell was palpable, vinegary; she could almost taste it in the back of her throat.

She spotted Jaime looking at the thick stuff, his mouth twisted in distaste. 

“Really?”

“It will help.”

“How do you know that? Do you even know what it is?”

“I don’t. And neither do you. And neither of us are maesters.”

“Neither is he.” Said Jaime, raising his eyebrows in the direction of the strange, grey man still sat by the fire.

“Stop being difficult.”

“Difficult?” He looked at her, mockingly, his face the image of faux-innocence, “Me?”

“I need to treat it and dress it. Or do we need to argue again?” 

He turned away, pouting. _Like a great overgrown child_ , she thought to herself, as she grabbed a scrap of clean fabric and dipped it into the ointment. She held his arm steady with her free hand.

“This will hurt.” She said, partly to him, partly to herself. He didn’t respond.

She took a deep breath, then gently daubed the paste onto his arm, where the wound was shallowest.

“Ah!” Jaime gasped in, twisting his arm away. The sudden movement made Brienne’s hand jerk, pressing into the flesh, and he gave a short, pained yell.

“Fuck, woman!”

“I told you it would hurt!”

He grimaced at her, his chest heaving, his face now pale around the edges. She felt a knot in her stomach as she dropped her gaze down to the wound, not daring to look him in the eyes, fearing his anger...or worse, his disappointment. This was, after all, her fault: he could deny it all he wanted, but had he not tried to save her, he wouldn’t have found himself injured. The cut was a comparatively minor wound, but looking at it reminded her of his hand, of the violence and pain and shock when they’d sliced through his wrist like a hot knife through butter.

She realised that she was still gripping onto his arm. He hadn’t moved away. 

“Get on with it, then.” She was startled by the sound of his voice, her head snapping up. His head bent, he looked up at her from behind his mess of hair.

Cautiously, she started to rub the ointment into his skin. He winced again, but this time she was prepared for him to twitch and wriggle.

“Hold _still_.” She sighed, exasperated, raising her head to look at him.

He was staring back, now - and he looked like he was about to say something, before stopping himself, blinking once or twice and then breaking her gaze. She paused, just for a moment, watching him take a calming breath, before starting again at her task.

It felt like it took an age, but finally the wound was covered in a thick layer of ointment. She leant away, feeling an ache in her back. She hadn’t realised how tense she had been, hunched over his arm. She rolled her shoulders experimentally and winced as she felt a sharp tug at the stitches in her neck.

“There.” She said, “Nearly done.” 

“Nearly?”

“We need to bind it.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t try to argue with her. Brienne finally let go of his arm, realising as she did that her hand was sticky with sweat where she’d been gripping onto him. Hastily, she rubbed her hand on the fabric of her dress, feeling a blush rising up her chest, and she fumbled for the rest of the bandages, hoping he hadn’t noticed. 

She grabbed the largest square of fabric, and meticulously folded it into a neat rectangle, wary of his eyes upon her. When she was done, she pressed the pad to the wound, gently pushing it flat with her palm, the fabric adhering to the mix of ointment and blood. Next, she started to wrap his arm, starting with a tight knot just below his elbow to keep the bandage in place. She tucked away the excess fabric, her fingers pressing against the surprisingly soft skin of the inside of his arm. She could feel a slow heat begin to creep up her neck.

Keeping her eyes on her work, she twisted the greying fabric up and around, keeping it taught around his arm, layering it over the wound as gently as she could. When she reached his wrist, she paused.

“Not too tight?” She asked.

Her words didn’t appear to register with him. He looked lost in thought, watching her hands move.

“Ser Jaime?”

He blinked, as if coming back from some faraway place. “I...what?”

“The bandages,” she nodded towards his arm, “are they too tight?”

He gave his head a little shake, still looking lost, then flexed his fingers, rotated his hand. “No it’s...fine. They’re fine.”

“Good. I just need to tie it…”

Brienne started to loop the remainder of the bandage around Jaime’s hand, securing it around his fingers so it wouldn’t slip during the journey back to King’s Landing. She traced the lines of his palm, edged with dirt and blood, as she wrapped the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, then gave it a tug, ready to tie the final knot.

He winced, and his fingers automatically clasped around hers.

Her breathing stopped. Everything within her was telling her to pull away, to move her hand, to run…but his fingers were gentle and warm and soft, far softer than the hands of a former prisoner ought to be, and she couldn't find the will to move. She knew that her own fingers were long and calloused and, above all, unladylike, and she waited for the moment where he would realise, with no small amount of horror, what he had done and let her go.

But the moment didn't come.

The warmth that had been playing around her unpleasantly exposed collarbone burst into a flush, and she felt her cheeks and ears redden. Her heart felt like it was skipping - felt like it was trying to escape her chest.

Beside them, the stream rushed. Up ahead, a bird screamed and wheeled through the sky. It was as if everything else had melted away, leaving only them, and the touch of his fingers on hers, and the sprawling wilderness beyond the trivial cares of beauty and houses and knights.

She looked up.

Jaime was staring at her. He wasn’t focused on his arm, nor the pain of the cut, but on her. It was almost like he was looking through her, like he was seeing something beyond her eyes. The sense was so strong that she had to resist the urge to turn around, to see if there was someone standing behind her to make him look so enraptured, yet so pained. She felt almost naked under his gaze; Vulnerable, exposed. At the baths, he’d seen all of her there was to see, all anyone would _ever_ see, but now his bright, shimmering green eyes were cutting through her like he was reading her thoughts, her soul. 

There was a sense of familiarity to the feeling, but none she could place; it was like comparing a puddle and the ocean. The feeling was everywhere, like she'd been submerged in it. She wanted to say something, wanted to give a voice to it, but her words dried up in her mouth.

It was just a touch, just a gentle touch – nothing compared to the grabbing and grasping and fighting that had defined their relationship up till this point. Nothing compared to his challenge on the bridge and the kiss of steel on steel. Nothing compared to the feeling of his body held in her arms, slick with grime, blood, and murky water. Nothing compared to his arm pushing her back – _get behind me_.

And yet it was everything.

She felt almost afraid to move, fearing that if she spoke or twitched her fingers the strange spell that had fallen over them would shatter and be replaced with something worse. 

A memory drifted across her mind; her younger self, her hand clasped in that of another as they danced across tiled floors with sweet, salty sea air wafting past them. In the memory, she turned to see Renly smiling back at her – but the vision was wrong, his hair longer and lighter than she remembered, and soon she couldn't recall his likeness at all. Standing in his place, one hand in hers and another on her waist, was Jaime Lannister. 

She blinked the memory away and suddenly she knew, in perfect clarity, why the feeling was familiar. The growing, rolling silence spread between them, but he didn't drop her gaze, didn't let go of her hand, and when the strange, tingling tension seemed to be near unbearable he opened his mouth as if to say something –

She panicked. She pulled her hand away and finally, painfully, broke his gaze. As if suddenly struck, he did the same, swallowing whatever it was he was about to say and dropping his head, staring at the grass, staring at nothing. She was glad for that; if he looked away, he wouldn't be able to see her blush.

"I should…" She rose, quickly, feeling tall and awkward as she did, painfully aware of the way the dress clung to her, desperately wishing she was back in her armour. Perhaps if she left, it would be like it had never happened. "I should go…"

She started back towards the camp and the comfort of the fire, but something tugged at her, made her stop.

"I meant what I said. Thank you, Jaime. For coming back for me.”

He nodded, a soft smile playing on his face, looking at her feet rather than her face. “And you have my thanks too, Brienne. For everything.”

She tried to ignore the fluttering in her chest as he spoke her name. “You may be taking them back before we reach King’s Landing,” She said, glancing at his arm, “I fear my skills as a maester are rather lacking.” 

He frowned at her, looking lost. 

“Your arm?” She gestured to the bandaged limb, wondering how he could have forgotten it.

Realisation dawned on his face. “Yes...I…” She stared at him, waiting for a response, waiting for an excuse. “Thank you.” He repeated, simply.

He rose to his feet.

“How cou-” Brienne started, ready to demand an explanation, but he cut her off.

“We should return to camp. Steelshanks will have caught a rabbit by now, I hope. I’m half-starved.”

Jaime strode away, leaving Brienne behind. She watched him as he stepped around the fire, nodded to Qyburn, and continued forwards to peer into the trees beyond. She absent-mindedly flexed her fingers, her skin still tingling where his hand had touched hers. With a deep sigh, she followed him.

Behind her, the stream continued to flow. The bird in the sky screeched again, then dived into a valley. From the trees, she could hear the _thwang_ of arrows being loosed and the shouts of men. And Jaime Lannister stood, in the centre of it all, leant against a tree, looking exactly the same as he always did.

And somehow she knew that everything had changed.


End file.
